


Sangria

by elation



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M, Reflection, Songfic, and brooding, but not sweet, definitely sad, short and sweet, well based off one anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elation/pseuds/elation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When life throws you lemons, you make lemonade. When life throws you Misha Collins, well, you just strap yourself on for the ride - something Jensen Ackles knows all to well. Where's the wine when you need it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sangria

When Jensen thinks about it, really thinks about it, because sometimes he has to, has to categorize and objectify his thoughts just to keep from wanting to crawl out of his own skin on the worst days, he has found that, to him, their relationship most resembles country, the songs that blow through his truck’s speakers at the ungodly hour of midnight, hitting eighty down an old dirt road going no where. When he was younger. When his family thinks he’s asleep. When he needs to not think for just two fucking seconds. And yeah, it might be ridiculous, but hell, is it accurate.

“ _Crashing into me like waves on the coast…_ ”

The music, It’s a whirlwind emotions, a mix of trades. It’s late summer nights, under the stars, wrapped up in blankets and happiness. It’s light and vibrant, giddy with the anticipation of simply talking, completely infatuated with another person. It’s silly and downright ridiculous, but smiles and laughter, because that’s just how it goes. It’s raw yet tender, because love stories are better sang than spoken, anyway.

And sometimes, only sometimes, is it angry and loud, like the overturned lamps and pillows thrown to the floor of hotel rooms in full on yelling matches that they’re left to explain to staff at three in the morning. It’s bitter and heartbroken and real, because neither truly understands what’s worth what anymore. What’s worth themselves. What’s worth each other. 

Despite it all, despite everything, Jensen still finds that it’s his favorite kind of music, has since he was a kid, even when Misha downright hates it. What’s new, though? There’s always going to be different genres, different songs, different tastes, different people, different responsibilities, different lives. 

But at the end of the day, when he’s at wit’s end or even out of his mind exhausted, his brain goes back to those tunes, wants to hum those familiar words and reminisce in a happiness that is confined solely for those back road times, those cherished but rare moments. 

So when he and Misha stumble up the stairs after yet another convention, with chaste kisses and grabby hands at each other like damned teenagers, he finds himself swept in yet another song.

“You coming?” A coy smile. Always the smiles. 

“ ….. _you lean in and your lips taste like Sangria_.”

A sigh. Always a sigh.

“Yeah.” 

“ ….. _your lips taste like Sangria_.”

The song repeats. He’s not sure if he’ll ever not.


End file.
